


Username: GodofMischief

by Sparcina



Series: How Frostiron Could Have Started [19]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), Good Loki (Marvel), Insecure Tony, Intersex Loki (Marvel), Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Loki is at least 1000, Loki-centric, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Masturbation, Nightmares, Not Steve Rogers Friendly, Not Thor: Ragnarok (2017) Compliant, Online Dating, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Rape Aftermath (Thanos), Safe Sane and Consensual, Secret Identity, Slow Build, Sugar Daddy Tony Stark, Sugar baby Loki, Tony Has Issues, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony is 48, Tony-centric, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: Two months after Rogers and Barnes have left him to die in that Siberian bunker, Tony has fallen back on old sins. Pepper has left him, his friends all have better things to do than babysit a bitter, depressive ex-Avenger, and Tony still feels like there's a gaping hole in his chest. He really doesn’t believe the world can still interest or surprise him.A single exchange on a dating website proves him wrong.Alternatively: Loki is stranded on Earth without his powers and needs money. Wrapping a sugar daddy (whatever that is) around his little finger seems the best way to go about it.





	1. Oncoming Storm (Tony)

**Author's Note:**

> Because apparently, four ongoing fics weren’t enough already. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I just came up with the first sugar_daddy!Tony & sugar_baby!Loki ever in English on A03 (I spotted another one, but Frostiron is not endgame in this one apparently)! If I'm mistaken, please point those out to me.

Tony drained another shot of vodka. Scotch was his favorite vice in liquid form, but Natasha always brought back her own version of fun from her missions in Eastern Europe, and Tony would be a fool (or more accurately, even more foolish than he already was) to turn up his nose at a gift from the Black Widow. Or to throw it away. She would know for sure if he dumped her precious vodka in the sink. She would know and she would hunt him down until he apologized to her satisfaction, which would probably require him to siphon every last drop back into the bottle and drink it until his liver imploded. Possibly on his knees handcuffed to a table, because Natasha had always struck him as a kinky motherfucker when she wasn't busy incapacitating forever giant men with her pinky.

"And here goes nothing..."

In a foul mood for the tenth day in a row, Tony lifted the empty tumbler and flung it over his shoulder, listening to the satisfying crash it caused upon impact with… something. With a little bit of luck, it would be the coffee table he hadn’t yet had the heart to throw out. Mementos of Pepper littered the penthouse, and every time he thought he’d gotten rid of everything she had chosen for their life together, he discovered another piece, another shard that embedded itself into his heart.

He picked up the bottle of very fine vodka and took a healthy swig. The burning sensation at the back of his throat made him skin buzz. Getting drunk was nothing new. Actually, people would start to question his sanity if he didn’t get wasted every once in a while. They didn’t have to know he’d spent the last week in that state, stumbling from the living room to his bedroom, with the occasional detour to the bathroom. Perhaps he should clean his teeth today. His stomach grumbled, reminding him it’d been at least a couple of days since the last time he ate solid food. Coffee didn’t count, Pepper would have said, but Pepper was _gone_ , and he was alone at the top of his little empire, cuddling up with a bottle of expensive alcohol. And being at the top only ever meant one thing: he was fated to fall.

One hour later, he was well and truly drunk, but still functional enough to type exotic equations on his tablet. Dum-E had come up to clean the mess he’d made and was hovering around him, chirping in worry. It would have annoyed Tony if it wasn’t the only creature in a ten-mile radius which actually cared about his well-being.

“Good boy,” he told the bot, patting its head. “Now leave daddy alone, he’s got work to do.”

For the next five minutes, he actually did work… Well, if replying to professional emails with sarcastic, concise expressions of dismissal could be termed as such. However, boredom finally caught up with him, and he turned back to one of his numerous projects. Fuck, wasn’t there anything even remotely interesting in that world? He couldn’t believe he was working on any of this shit. With an impatient finger, he closed every open tab on his tablet until there was nothing left.

He felt so empty. With a sigh of exasperation, he threw the tablet at his side on the sofa and considered passing out. A bit of alcohol would help with that, he was sure.

His phone rang.

“Not now, Friday,” he sing-sang.

“It’s Ms. Potts,” the AI had the galls to reply.

Tony pressed his fingers to his eyes, and was calculating how much pressure he would have to apply to crush the fragile flesh that allowed him to see his own madness, when the AI spoke up again.

“She insists she must speak to you, boss.”

“Tell her to go to hell,” Tony snarled back.

Fortunately, Friday took it as her clue to stop pestering him. He did devise the best AIs, even if it was the only decent thing he was doing with his life.

“If someone else calls tonight, or tomorrow while we’re at it, keep my phone on silent. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Like you wish, boss.”

“Don’t sound so damn well disapproving. You remind me of her.”

Lying down on the couch, Tony lifted the bottle of vodka to his mouth. He’d barely touched it; Natasha would be insulted.

“Put something nice on the TV, Friday. But no action, and no romance. Something stupid.”

“Most ‘stupid’ things, as you call them, both have an element of action and/or romance in them,” Friday pointed out.

Tony was totally giving Friday a downgrade in the process of digital dopamine; his AI lacked the most basic elements to be considered eligible to the intelligence comity.

“Just do it, damn it. I didn’t ask you for a dissertation on the matter.”

“While you’re being angry at me for no other reason than you wallowing in self-pity, may I point out that it would do you good to go outside of this tower and see people?”

Tony took two more gulps before slamming the bottle on the floor. Vodka sloshed inside, and a few dropped trickled over the edge, slowly rolling down to the floor. He fumbled for his tablet.

“Fine,” he growled. “ _Fine_. I shall entertain myself without your help.”

He spent the next fifteen minutes watching videos of past fights with and against the other Avengers. Well, ex-Avengers; their little group of badass superheroes belonged to the past. Torturing himself was something he could do fairly often, and fairly easily. ‘Wallowing in self-pity’, Friday had said; well, she wasn’t wrong. Not that Tony planned to tell her that. He was just… reminiscing. Letting old pain back in, to flood him. It took him a while to notice he was clutching at his arc reactor.

The skin around the device was still very sensitive. After Rogers had pulled it out in that bunker, Tony had managed to stay alive, thanks to a timely intervention by one of those friends who had since then deserted him. He’d even improved the device, and while there was no visible wound in the flesh encasing it, Tony always felt as though the skin was bruised, as if Rogers had permanently damaged it in some way.

He rose to his elbows and drank deeply. Pepper might have complained about his drinking habit, Rogers might have been on her side, but Tony didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything.

He started crying halfway through the bottle. By that time, he was well and truly drunk, and couldn’t stand up without falling on his face. He’d also gone from watching fighting videos to watching speeches about space, because hell, space was awfully big, full of things unknown, and beings more exotic than any formula he could come up with.

In his drunken state, his brain connected space with Asgard. And thinking about Thor’s home led him to consider the whereabouts of his adopted little brother, because if there was one being in the universe who was more fucked up than even he was, that would be Loki.

What was he up to nowadays? Still trying to invade a planet somewhere? Perhaps Thor had finally caught up with him, and brought him ‘home’, for Odin to lock him up in a sorcerer-proof cell? He wondered what he would do, if he ended up in a cell for a few centuries, for a _millennium_. Would he go mad? Kill himself, before his reason deserted him? When he started to laugh, he let go of the bottle. Surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly, the vodka bottle didn’t break and merely rolled on its side.

“Shit, Natasha’s gonna kill me…”

With clumsy hands, he reached for the bottle. The only thing he achieved by that was crash to the floor in turn, in soaking all that wonderful vodka from overseas in his clothes.

*

He woke up an hour later, still drunk and his bladder full. The journey to the bathroom amounted to an epic adventure he didn’t care to repeat, but he managed to go there and come back all in one piece, a feat for which he mentally patted himself on the back.

The tablet on the coffee table caught his eye. _Pepper_ ’s table. With a groan, he snatched it from the surface and sank in the sofa. The screen inches from his eyes, he proceeded to access an old website he hadn’t touched in a very long time.

Tony might hate people who tried to befriend him because of his money, but he only hated those who did it in a sly manner, not being upfront about what they wanted out of him. He liked to care about people, no matter what Pepper and fucking Rogers liked to say, and he liked sex: if someone pretty enough wished some of his money in exchange for a good lay, no strings attached, he wasn’t going to complain.

He needed a few tries before he typed the correct password. The website had a new interface, a couple brand-new functions, and a gold-and-black background that made it more appealing than the former version.  

 _Do you wish to change your username?_ it prompted.

Tony considered it for a moment. _SuckMyCock_ must have struck him as a good idea at some point, but he found it a bit shameful right now.

 _Yes_ , he clicked.

The cursor blinked on an empty line. Tony thought hard for a couple minutes. Later, he would question his sanity at choosing this name, but right now, he could not thing of anything more witty, or more befitting.

 _GodofMischief_ , he typed with a lewd smile.

He didn’t change his profile picture: young people looking for a sugar daddies would want to know what his dick looked like. Plus, it was a damn fine picture. Tony couldn’t remember who’d taken it. He confirmed his age (48), his yearly income (which didn’t exactly reflect what he earned, but then he didn’t want people to guess who he really was), his gender (still male) and his preferences in a partner (male or female, between 22 and 32, IQ above average, into performing oral sex, and receiving vaginal and/or anal).

The website suggested him two dozens people who fit those preferences. Tony looked at the pictures but didn’t found any one worth his time. Sure, they were all gorgeous, all willing (or so they claimed), but none of them appealed to him, none of them rouse his dormant _need to fuck_. Opening a new window, he tinkered with the website code until the search results showed him only users who were new to the site _and_ fit all of his preferences.

Only one caught his attention.

It was a man. Username: _OncomingStorm_. Whereas most users’ profile pictures showed either their genitals or their whole bodies, this one only displayed one eye. Tony didn’t laugh; it should have been ridiculous, the effect of that single, green eye had on him, but he didn’t feel like laughing.

The profile of _OncomingStorm_ said male, 26, IQ above everyone else’s (Tony chuckled in delight; he should have thought of this himself), likes oral and anal sex, both on the receiving and the performing end, into domination and submission, speaks 15 languages (his eyebrows went up), is looking for a sugar daddy who earns more than 150.000.000/year (Tony had put 250.000.000 on his profile).

Lust roared through him as he saw the only other picture on _OncomingStorm_ ’s profile. It showed him from behind, standing up, one smooth line of pale flesh that stretched on forever. He was slim, almost delicate, with a perk bottom, muscled yet slender thighs, and a neck that begged to be bitten, marked. The long mane of dark hair held up in a loose bun would make a gorgeous mess on his pillow, Tony thought, one hand reaching for his pants. Without further ado, he slid a hand under his waistband and wrapped his fingers around his interested cock, stroking it to full hardness while admiring every little detail that made _OncomingStorm_ a tableau worthy of his attention.

He pumped his length swiftly, almost harsh in his urgency. Propping the tablet against one of the sofa’s arms, he fondled his balls with his other hand. He never tore his eyes from the man’s back, and climaxed picturing his cock sheathed between those milky buttocks. He could almost hear the stranger mewl in pleasure, calling his name breathlessly, _Tony, Tony, oh, Tony…_

Ribbons of semen splattered the screen, dribbling over pixelized alabaster skin.

“Fuck.”

After wiping the screen clean with a discarded shirt, he reached for the bottle of vodka and sucked on the opening, still aroused beyond reason. Once he’d got enough self-control back to let go of an imaginary cock, he opened a conversation window.

 **GodofMischief** : _I like your eyes_.

He hit the _Send_ button before he could talk himself out of it.

Ten minutes later (some people _had_ a life, he reminded himself, the bottle cradled to his chest), a reply came.

 **OncomingStorm** : _You presume I have two_ _?_

Tony grinned at the screen.

 **GodofMischief** : _I just masturbated looking at your backside. I’m pretty sure the perfection goes all the way, but if not, it doesn’t bother me_.

Encouraged by the alcohol and the release of endorphins brought about by his orgasm, he let slip a little secret.

 **GodofMischief** :  _I'm familiar with all types of wounds, and the scars they leave behind._

Thirty seconds later, a reply flashed on the screen.

 **OncomingStorm** : _I would say I’m flattered, but I was made to believe I shouldn’t take for granted anything anyone says on this website._

Tony had completely forgotten the vodka at hand’s reach. A newbie? Oh, he was going to have so much _fun_.


	2. The Vagaries of Mortality (Loki)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely pluma, who was soooo angry with me *winks*

Midgard was a strange realm.

Back in Asgard, he couldn't have gone on a walk without some vulgar quims starting rumors in his back or a servant bothering him with work that could, and would, wait. Here in the midst of mortals, he was invisible. Absolutely no one spared him a second glance, even though he’d invaded this planet only a few years ago. Not that he’d tried very hard to rule those ants; actually, it’d been the exact opposite, but that knowledge belonged to him alone. He liked his head attached to his neck, and didn’t miss others' presence in his mind.  

Midgardians’ stupidly short memory made the use of glamor completely unnecessary. Loki merely changed his name and wore more casual clothes to try and blend with the crowd. Humans were just so promiscuous; he felt like he was drowning in anonymity every time he left the sanctity of another inn’s room to better piece together the puzzle that was his new life as a fugitive.

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to afford the use of a private room for much longer. He’d only been in Midgard for six months, and he’d spent most of that time resting and barely using his seidr in order to replenish his reserves, a process that proved painstakingly slow, more so than usual. His magic had always had a mind of its own (as it very well should), and even now he could cast only the most basic spells lest his magic retaliated. The fact that taking someone else’s appearance was probably one of the less costing spells of all and also one he didn’t need annoyed him to no end.

He could magic money out of thin air, but there was something about the individuality of the bills, and some ‘seal of authenticity’, that made it hard to duplicate those flimsy slips of paper. Still, he had replicated those bills for a while, until he discovered how quickly mortals could be caught using ‘false money’. As for credit cards, he might as well forget it: the technology behind them remained beyond his understanding (not that he would ever admit it to a living soul). He might hate the fact, what the Man of Iron had once told him remained true to this day: for a god, Loki was not all-powerful.

As he turned into a small alley that widened a few yards later into a park, he spared another thought for the mortal who had dared mocked him. He watched the news, of course (he wasn’t his brother), and had thus followed the mess known as the Sokovia Accords with interest. He hadn’t dared use his seidr to teleport to Munich and witness the debacle in person, but he’d surfed the Internet for a while afterwards, curious about the Man of Iron's reaction to the betrayal of his former comrades in arms.

Because he knew the results of torture and treason so intimately, he saw all the signs immediately: that particular shade of darkness lurking in those otherwise shining brown eyes hinting at revenge and violence, the subtle twitch of lips whenever someone mentioned the Captain, the anxious gestures he couldn’t suppress, like massaging a hand that had probably been wounded repeatedly, or briefly fiddling with the fabric of his jacket, very close, Loki knew, to where the Arc reactor used to be, that device that had irked him back when he’d been at the Mad Titan’s beck and call to ensure his own survival.

Leaning into the large trunk of a sick tree shedding leaves the color of blood, he wondered how Anthony Stark would have fared at the hands of his worst enemy. If his mind would have broken after his body had succumbed. Lifting a fallen leaf to his nose and breathing in the scent of autumn and time flowing ever forwards, he pictured Anthony in his own situation, without a name and a reputation to rely upon, or money to back him up. Would he resort to theft or prostitution? Would he consider it beneath his station to ask for help, demeaning for one once powerful enough to rule Midgard if he’d so wished? He released the leaf and watched it blend in with the crowd of mortals screaming and running like so many little insects unaware of their chance to be alive.

He wondered if they would meet again.  

Once the sun set, he wound up in a small café where he could get a good meal, and the use of a computer, for a reasonable fee. Hamburgers, fries and sandwiches would never make up his list of favorite meals, but it filled his belly, and he needed all the fuel he could get if he ever hoped to make a living off the streets. But he wasn’t worried; he always found a way. If he could convince both Thanos and Odin that he was dead, he could become rich and mighty in the shadows once more. Rich and mighty, but not as a ruler; he’d never wanted to rule, only to _be able to rule_ , if the need ever came.

And it might. But now wasn’t the time to ponder about what the future held for the nine realms.

“Want something else?”

“No, thank you.” Contrarily to many Asgardians’ belief, he could be very polite and well-mannered. When it suited him. “However, I shall use the computer a little longer.”

The waitress shrugged and returned to the counter. Loki clicked on the three-colored ball-shaped icon that represented the Internet (or so Barton had told him back _then_ ) and began searching for a job.

He didn’t mind working, not even hard, physical work… again, contrarily to popular belief. He just found the use of his mind more rewarding than that of muscles, even if he understood the appeal of sweat and exhaustion under certain circumstances.

He chuckled as he came upon an advertisement for a _masseur_. The work was clearly sexual in nature, no matter what the little add claimed. For a moment, Loki reminisced about a weekend in Vanaheim a few decades ago, when he’d enjoyed the skilled hands of such a professional. He hadn’t wanted to go through the trouble of seducing someone just to get blown and penetrated, and had sought out a specialist in another realm instead. The masseur, like most Vanirs in the sex business, wasn’t close-minded and judgmental as Aesirs tended to be, and Loki had been able to shed his Aesir skin and enjoy the talented mouth and fingers of the masseur on his cock, in his cunt and his asshole until he’d climaxed to his heart’s content. Afterwards, in a much better mood, he’d even returned the favor with one of his clones as he’d fucked the Vanir masseur through the mattress.

Those had been good times.

Resting his chin in one hand, Loki sighed as he scrolled down another page that he already suspected offered nothing of interest for him. If only he’d been less moral… But after what he’d suffered at the Mad Titan’s hands and those of his minions, and the very disturbing experience of taking control of minds, mortals’ as they may be, he’s sworn never to coerce people into doing things they didn’t want to ever again, and that included magicking them into submission. Midgardians _were_ beneath him, but he wouldn’t fiddle with their wills unless his own life was in danger.  
He hadn’t reached that point yet, and he didn’t expect he would. Besides, he was pretty confident in his ability to charm women and men alike, no matter what limited sexual preferences they hid behind. It did help that no one recognized the army general from New York.

Loki nibbled on the tip of his index finger, considering. He was the god of mischief, chaos, lies and fire, but also of desire, with a special gift for lust. He _was_ god of all these things and then some more, even if his oaf of a brother would rather throw Mjölnir in the Void and disguise himself as a woman, again, before agreeing with him.

Prostitution might be frowned upon in some parts of Midgard, but Loki had nothing against paying people to get sex, or getting paid to spread his legs. Being born gender fluid and sporting the sexual characteristics of both males and females, he felt confident in his sexuality, even if he knew better than to go around and tell people. Only his mother and a few lovers and prostitutes knew, and they’d all praised him for it.

Would it be so bad, to sell his body to gather riches in this realm? Prostitution had been an option from the start, but Loki was loath to use it so soon in the game. Because this was all a game to Odin, wasn’t it? Odin who presented himself as a fair ruler, but refused to hear out his adopted son when he claimed he hadn’t been in his right mind when he’d attacked Earth, and that a threat much bigger than even the warlords of Muspellheim loomed over their heads.

But Odin had refused to listen, and so here he was, with no money, and a reputation that might still cling to his kin and cause him prejudice, if he met the wrong people. He had to hide… and survive. For now, that’s all he could afford. Even a god could die of hunger, and he would rather not steal from those who needed food. He remembered being hungry. It wasn't a good feeling, especially with a torture device tearing him up apart from the inside.

To sell his body again… He’d done it in the first five centuries of his life, to explore his own limits and expand his horizons.

He’d offered his body in exchange for favors in the Void, too.

It was the memories of those times that made him hesitate as he saw the flashing title. Unease pooled low in his belly, but arousal chased it away for now. He couldn’t be too picky, and the faster he built new memories in a sexual context, the easiest it would be for the harmful ones to fade.

Besides, he wouldn’t deny his nature. He was not broken; it would take much more than a mad creature fascinated by death to bring him to his knees.

Talking about getting on his knees…

A smirk playing on his lips, he began a search for escorts. The prospects were interesting, but something else, similar and yet completely other, caught his interest in one of those ‘pop-ups’ Barton had so much complained about.

“Find the sugar daddy of your dreams,” he read aloud. Even without having heard the expression before, he was pretty sure he grasped the concept, and also, that he would make more money, and faster, as a ‘sugar baby’ than as an escort, and for perhaps less work.

Loki entered the website and checked out the rules before signing up.

_Choose a username._

Ah. Well, it couldn’t be anything too obvious. And he wasn’t as crude as some users whose profiles he’d quickly discarded. The faint odor of winter already floating in the air inspired him a new alias.

 _OncomingStorm_ , he typed, and decided now and then that he’d very much like a hot chocolate to go with his job hunting.

*

Setting up his profile was the easy part. Loki had to ‘borrow’ a computer for the night to take a picture, and he took one of himself from behind, tweaking it to clear the lines and colors with the tinniest bit of magic. He also uploaded one of his right eye, and decided to use it as his profile picture. He liked sex, yes, but he’d rather not sheath a cock that belonged to an idiot. He assumed that someone curious enough to read his profile after seeing his eye, and not his cock or his ass, would probably be a better fit. Using an eye would also screen the potential ‘sugar daddies’ looking for an easy fuck.

After two hours of searching the website using different parameters, he was starting to think he would have to settle for ‘stupid’ and ‘arrogant’, a combination he thoroughly despised, when all the hair on his body stood on end. Shifting to a sitting position on the bed, he clicked on _GodofMischief._

48 years old, male, IQ above average. Yearly income: 250.000.000.

The profile picture was, of course, a cock. Still, Loki didn’t close the window and even zoomed in the picture. The man’s prick was downright gorgeous, thick and long, but not too much, just like Loki liked his men. What he could make out of _GodofMischief_ ’s thighs was muscled, firm, and the skin appeared smooth around the pale scars that were almost invisible in the dim light. Loki licked his lips. He wouldn’t mind roughening up this skin, or taking that long prick into his mouth to lick at the crown. Uncut. So much better. Saliva flooded his mouth as he fantasized about thick fingers massaging his hole, and the salty moisture of precum on his tongue. He lay back on the mattress and brought two fingers to his mouth, lathering them with saliva. His cock was already half-hard.

Before he could take himself in hand, though, he saw a little letter icon flash at one corner of the screen. Intrigued and a little annoyed, he clicked on it.

 **GodofMischief** :  _I like your eyes_.

He forgot all about the fingers in his mouth and stared at the words for what felt like an eternity. Could other users see who was watching their profile? Was it why this one had contacted him just as Loki was touching himself perusing _his_?

Letting out a loud moan (he'd never been shy about his own pleasure; why would he?), he snaked a hand between his legs and pulled at his cock a little to ease some of the tension. God of Mischief. He felt revered, adored, and he knew that the person who’d come up with that name wasn’t his enemy. He wondered if it was his eye, or his backside, which had intrigued this mortal who’d dared using one of his monikers.

He was both angry and terribly aroused.

 _I like your eyes._ Such innocent words, and such potential. Loki relaxed his grip on his prick as he wiped his other hand on his belly, thinking of a reply. The energy of lust thrummed in his veins.

 **OncomingStorm** :  _You presume I have two?_

Banter came as easy to him as breathing, and if the man of the beautiful prick would rather they talked of more… carnal matters right from the start, he would be just a little disappointed. He would still masturbate to the fantasy of their mingled moans and bodily fluids, but he _would_ be disappointed.

The icon blinked again.

 **GodofMischief** :  _I just masturbated looking at your backside. I’m pretty sure the perfection goes all the way, but if not, it doesn’t bother me_.

Loki was still trying to decide if he’d rather resume touching himself, or dissect the meaning behind the second part of the message, when new words appeared.

 **GodofMischief** :  _I'm familiar with all types of wounds, and the scars they leave behind._

Oh, but the man behind the name _he_ still bore with pride was proving more and more interesting. Wounds and scars. A puzzle, secrets he could unravel. The face of Stark briefly floated in his mind. A challenge. He thrived on them.

 **OncomingStorm** :  _I would say I’m flattered, but I was made to believe I shouldn’t take for granted anything anyone says on this website._

 **GodofMischief** : _I couldn’t have advised you better._

Loki’s lips curled up. Was there a dominant, arrogant streak to match the prick in high quality?

 **OncomingStorm** : _And what would you advise me to do now?_

He reached for his hole and caressed the puckering flesh for a moment, before sliding in one digit to the last knuckle. A shudder went up his spine, and his legs fell apart of their own. While he waited for a reply, he stroked his inner walls slowly, sensuously, imagining eyes on him. He could give quite a show, or so he’d been told on multiple occasions.

Half an hour later, he’d given himself two orgasms, one vaginal, one anal, and _GodofMischief_ still hadn’t written back to him. Deciding to call it a night, Loki turned off the computer, showered himself at length and went to bed.

His dreams were filled with scars that weren’t his, and he followed them with his tongue and fingers until he woke up the next morning, so hard it took only a few pulls for him to spill himself over his wrist.

Midgard was more interesting than he remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it has been a while, and I'm sorry, but I'm chin deep into yet another novel (like 130.000-word deep, and not done) and I've meant to finish it for years, AND I've got another one to correct for the nth time before it's sent to press, and of course they're not written in the same language, so... Still, this story will get updated, just not very fast (but if you've read some of my other fics, you already know about that). Hugs!


	3. All Manners of Business (Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, I guess I’m a busy bee ’cause I’m 4k farther into my new trilogy (OW) as of today. Also received a sort-of-positive reply for a novel I’ve finished a few months back and crossing my fingers. Figured I could use the good mood and work my way through a new chapter of this fic before the brain shuts down for the night. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Tony was _so_ pissed. No scratch that: he was well on his way to that lethal killing edge that didn't seem to impress everyone anymore.

Pepper, obviously, was part of that elite group of annoying SOBs who could make him lose his cold in about 0.0001 second with the right, or rather the wrong, word.

In this case, ‘emergency’.

“There’s an emergency that you need to deal with, Mr. Stark. Unless Iron Man is too busy entertaining female company?”

Really, it wasn’t Tony’s fault that their relationship had deteriorated after what he’d come to think of as ‘Stupid Rogers and his stupid lover’s attempt at murder’,  alternatively called ‘America’s debacle’. He’d been stressed through the roof after _almost dying_ , and if he’d said a few things he should have kept to himself, and spent most of his time down in his lab working said stress away, who could blame him (beside the obvious)? He seldom slept more than two or three hours in a stretch, and even then, only to suffer through the worst kind of nightmare in recent existence.  

It wasn’t Tony’s fault, but it wasn’t Pepper either, no matter how much Tony might have tried to blame their failure on her during the first few days of debauched drinking after her final exit. She was justified in thinking he was now having sex with random people, even if it was only with his own hand (for now). She couldn’t know that he was fantasizing about a cock rather than a vagina, and that he’d been on the verge of sex-texting the green-eyed stranger into what he'd hoped would be a fantastic climax.

She couldn’t know that his little ‘discussion’ with Storm had been the best moment in his life recently. No stress, only relief… Storm’s digital presence was a blessing. Seconds prior to Pepper’s call, Tony had been planning on introducing the stranger to all the perks of being _his_ sugar baby, and later end that chat by getting the man all hot and bothered thinking of him, but then life was an unfair bitch and so nothing was new.

 **OncomingStorm** : _And what would you advise me to do now?_   

So yeah, Tony was well and truly mad.

“What emergency?” he barked, not minding his tone one bit.

To her credit, Pepper didn’t raise her voice and merely gave him indications. Mentally cursing her ten ways to hell, Tony listened half-heartedly to her explanations while he tucked his soft cock back into his pants. He had half a mind to sit back and type at least some kind of explanation into the blinking chat box so that Storm wouldn’t think he’d just abandoned him for another youth with a different eye color, but while he was an asshole, Tony Stark wasn’t that much of an asshole; if people were dying, his libido had to take the back seat.

“I’m suiting up in ten seconds,” he told an impatient Pepper jogging to the lift, which Friday had readied for him. “I’ll be there in- Friday?”

“Three hours and twenty-two minutes, boss.”

Tony relayed the info back to Pepper. They hung up at the exact same time.

“Some days I really hate my life,” he growled as the faceplate descended to cover his very own eye color.

“I am sure the people you are going to save are thinking along those very lines,” Friday had the audacity to remark. Tony had to wonder when she'd gotten so sassy... Almost as sassy as Jarvis.

He missed his pal, but now was no time to reminisce about the good ol’ days.

“I don’t need your help dealing with wasted opportunities, thank you very much.”

As he left the tower and aimed for the clouds, Tony braced himself for a very boring two hours and nineteen minutes.

*

The Avengers may be a thing of the past, and Iron Man a puppet for the UN to do as they pleased, but Tony would never stand idly if innocents could be saved. While he hadn’t been innocent in a very, very long time, he never liked to see children look anything _but_ innocent, and always played his part as a not-hero-but-close-enough.

Besides, blasting bastards to parts was always so much fun. Explosions were also a nice way to pass the time between two long flights, and Tony had always liked shiny fireworks. The fact that he’d succeeded in freeing close to twenty children was just the cherry on top of this little escapade for the few good members of humankind.

On his way back, somewhere over the Atlantic with a storm closing on his heels, Tony went from elated to bored, and from bored to annoyed. He would rather have stayed annoyed then become aroused in the suit, but as usual, his body was a treacherous thing that did its best to emulate Steve-fucking-Rogers.

*

Making sure not to fling Natasha’s most recent gift to the ground with his elbow in his impatience, he opened his only locked alcohol cabinet and retrieved his most expensive bottle of scotch. If he was to learn green-eyed Storm had decided _he_ was no fun, he didn’t want it to be on an empty stomach, and even less with a sober mind. This day called for celebration, after all. Never mind that _his_ life was a disaster, and the only reason he wasn’t always drunk was the need to give innocents a second chance (as opposed to lying murderers and the likes), which he could only do with a relatively clear head.

The first swallow burnt all the way down to his stomach, so delightful it was almost as good as massaging his hole under the sheets on a slow, lazy night. With a sense of impending doom and AC/DC shouting through the speakers, Tony sat with his feet on Pepper’s table and balanced his tablet on his thighs. The second sip of scotch renewed the burnt. His scotch really was the best.

“Would it be too much to ask that he hasn’t already turned to someone else?” he asked aloud to no one in particular.

Friday turned down the music a notch, enough to be heard, but not enough to bother Tony.

“I don’t remember you being so nervous around strangers, boss.”

The scotch swirled in the tumbler as Tony raised it to the windows, through which a beautiful sunset could be seen (or in his case, ignored). “And I don’t remember promising you to charity, but I’m getting old, you know, and I tend to forget things.”

“Forty-nine next month, to be accurate.”

“Do I really need to give you off to- _oh_.”

He’d been so sure that his next visit to the website would end up in disappointment, and a long night of renewed friendship with scotch that the quick reply came as a physical shock. Straightening his tablet on his lap, he stared hard at the words on the screen.

“Am I reading that right, girl?”

“I believe your eyesight to be as functional as usual, boss.”

“Oh yeah,” Tony moaned, dragging the heel of his palm down his rapidly hardening cock.

 **OncomingStorm** : _And what would you advise me to do now?_   

 **GodofMischief** : _Sorry for leaving you hanging for so long, but there was an emergency on my side. Now to answer your question: since I can’t very well smell your skin, kiss every knob down your spine and press my face into your ass to lick you open from where I sit, how about you push a finger in that warm, cosy place, and tell me how it feels?_

It was as good an overture as any, really.

And Storm’s reply was exactly what he’d hoped it would be.

 **OncomingStorm** : _Those two orgasms felt very good, even if I didn’t have your undivided attention and had to imagine the words you would have wielded._

Two orgasms. And Storm had been thinking about him… about his cock, at the very least, since it was the only part of him beside his thighs and belly that showed on his picture.

As Tony unzipped his pants and squeezed the base of his cock, he considered what Storm could have meant by ‘undivided attention’. Was the man hinting at dirty-sexting, or an exhibitionist streak? As much as Tony liked everything about the former, he’d much rather watch the man touch himself. No, not touch: finger. Squirming on the bed, stretching his cute little ass in front of him so that Tony would know to fuck _him_ good and proper later on.

He growled low in his throat as he pictured his sugar baby on his knees, hands on his ass cheeks, spreading them in a blatant invitation. Biting down his lip, he gathered the precum that had already beaded at the tip and fisted his length more roughly.

With his other hand, he typed. It was long but not tedious; this was part of the game of digital seduction.

 **GodofMischief** : _You want to tell me about those fantasies, or should I describe what I’m thinking right now?_

 **OncomingStorm** : _Are you touching yourself, daddy?_

Tony’s cock twitched. Fuck, but that young man was a fast learner… unless it was a lie to get him hooked, and get his money. Well, Tony wasn’t overly attached to his money, and he didn’t mind little deceptions that made him hard and desperate to fuck. He was already so close… He must have been more tired by the fight than he’d thought. Must be all the reminiscing about the events in that ice-cold bunker.

“I want to… fuck you,” he groaned aloud. “ _Baby._ ”

 **GodofMischief** : _I’m picturing you on a lavish bed, with your ass high in the air, begging for my cock. You’re already wet and loose from my mouth and fingers, and you want it so bad you’re making all kinds of needy sounds, baby, and I love it. You any loud in bed? And how about that fuck? Want it rough and fast, or slow and damning?_

The answer hit his inbox so fast there was no way Storm could be doing anything other than typing. The thought of his future/possible baby bent over his computer, trying his best to please him with words, made his hand move faster. His cock throbbed almost painfully as he jacked off to milky buttocks and green yes.

 **OncomingStorm** : _I believe you want it hard and fast right now. Am I wrong, daddy? Please tell me I’m not, because that’s exactly how I want you to take me until I scream your name._

Tony came so hard he knocked the tablet off his lap.  

“Fuck!”

The sound of the tablet hitting the floor hardly registered as he painted his tight undersuit in white. He was sweaty all over, out of breath and halfway to tipsy, and he felt great.

“Friday,” he called once he managed to reconnect his brain to his mouth, “be a dear and transfer 200 bucks to this charming man’s account, will you?”

When she replied a handful of seconds later, she sounded perplexed. “I’m afraid the operation has failed, boss.”

Tony stopped playing with his cum at once, even if the thought of finger-feeding it to Storm was that distracting.

“Has SI bankrupted in the last… what, five minutes?” he asked in an equally perplexed tone.

“Oh no, boss, not at all. It’s merely that there’s no bank account linked to that individual.”

Tony frowned for all of three seconds before smiling widely.

 **GodofMischief** : _You’re so good to me. Just came all over myself thinking of your ass squeezing my cock as you came, that mysterious face of yours contorted in pleasure. Incidentally, I tried to transfer you a couple of hundred $, but it seems you haven’t registered your bank account info on my new favorite website._

He waited for all of two minutes before embracing his usual recklessness and writing further. He’d never typed so fast, not even back in that awful cave in Afghanistan to save his own skin.

 **GodofMischief** : _When can we meet, green eyes?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update May 3rd, 2018: I was considering bringing Thanos and all that jazz into the story, without changing any of the main tags or the warnings. Sounds like a plan?


	4. Snapshots of Danger and Desire (Loki)

**GodofMischief:** _When can we meet, green eyes?_

For a heartbeat, Loki sat frozen on the small bed in the Midgardian inn, his juice-coated fingers hovering over the keyboard, cum trailing down his belly. If only he could have kept on basking in the afterglow of his double orgasm... but the only thing on his mind now was Thanos.

Thanos looming over him, dark eyes shimmering with echoes of the Void that was both his home and the future he meant to paint for the universe.

Thanos who held his godly life in the palm of his hand and made him dance to a maddening tune only he could hear, again, and again, and-

If he'd been any less obstinate and strong-willed, Loki would curl into a ball and shiver at the memory of those huge purple fists breaking bones as they beat him unconscious, would whimper in agony as he recalled the violation of both his holes. Of course, there had been many things to enter his body in the Void, and many beings to enjoy defiling it. Thanos wouldn’t always watch, but whenever he did, he would claim him afterwards. 

It was no wonder it took him so much time to replenish his seidr, Loki reflected; he’d used a big chunk of his magic to block the physical pain from those memories and heal the damage sustained to his body.

Ignoring the shivers running up and down his spine, he stood and walked to the window. The curtains slid aside at the brush of a finger, exposing the city he'd chosen for his exile.

Of course the man who called himself Mischief would want to meet him. Loki had pressed all the right buttons, had written exactly what the mortal had wanted to read in order to reach his climax. It was no hardship, to masturbate and turn on an invisible partner for money. But there were two problems that Loki really should have anticipated: his payment, and the man’s wish for actual flesh.

Loki pressed his brow to the window and watched as the sky darkened. It would rain tonight. Humans would become scarce outside, and Loki would be able to run without bumping into too many annoying obstacles.

He needed some time to clear his head, and if he pretended the sudden urge to flee had nothing to do with his time as Thanos’ slave, well, he wasn't called the god of lies for nothing.

*

After a two-hour run, a fast meal of one of those bread-and-meat 'sandwiches' the Midgardians loved so much as well as a long bath to relax his muscles, Loki climbed back into bed to meditate. As luck would have it, a fifty-odd man wearing an expensive suit not unlike one of Stark’s had offered him a thousand dollars to have his cock sucked, but Loki had declined. The man's eyes had been… too greedy. Loki had briefly considered snapping the stupid mortal’s neck, but the knowledge that he could just walk way and take a hot bath instead of wasting time finding a hole for dead flesh had won out at the end.

 **GodofMischief:** _When can we meet, green eyes?_

Loki was calmer as he reread those words. Yes, he was scarred from his time in the Void, but not so much that he didn't want sex. He just didn't wish for... complications. Complications that weren't of his own making, obviously. He scrolled up, directing his focus to the money issue. Apparently, it was possible to ‘transfer’ money by ‘registering’ a bank account. Loki wasted thirty minutes looking up financial terminology before remembering that for a sugar daddy, sex was a reward for favors.

Information could be a favor, couldn't it? And if Mischief dared mock him for his ignorance of this planet’s stupidly complicated financial system, Loki could still seek him out (as soon as his seidr would allow it) and make him pay… in every sense of the word.

 **OncomingStorm:** _As I am not from America, I would request an explanation as to what transferring money entails, and how to register a bank account._

He spared some of his seidr to wash his body’s fluids from the bed sheets while he waited for an answer.

It took a little under twenty minutes. As Loki was back meditating and hadn’t turned the volume on after last night, he only saw it an hour later.

 **GodofMischief:** _Do you know what a bank is?_

There were three little boxes with separate answers, actually.

 **GodofMischief:** _I’m not mocking you here, but I need to know where to start. On second thought, perhaps you could simply give me your address, so I can send some tangible money right to your mailbox. If you have one. The money could be slipped under your door as well. Tell me what’s more convenient._

 **GodofMischief:** _Are you worried about us meeting face to face, baby? I know you’re new to this kind of thing, and I don’t want to push you, but as much as I love your backside and your eyes, I could kill for a little more. What do you feel comfortable with?_

Loki found himself smiling for the first time since he'd left for his run earlier.

 **OncomingStorm:** _I had killed for a lot less. How about another picture for now?_

 **GodofMischief:** _Are you in jail? Unless you’re jailbait, and mean to put me behind bars as one of your kinks? Another picture sounds amazing – if you’re twenty-one. I would love to see your mouth._

Loki had to search the word 'jailbait', and he laughed out loud as he discovered what exactly was implied. If the mortal knew just how old ‘OncomingStorm’ was, his poor brain would probably melt. Unless he ran screaming first.

 **OncomingStorm:** _I didn’t write my true age on the website, but I assure you that I have been more than twenty-one for a while, even if I do look young. My mouth, you say? Is it that you wish to compliment me on another part of my anatomy, or would you rather have a detailed… visual to go with your fantasy of stretching my mouth with your cock, daddy?_

Mischief’s answer hit his inbox so fast the mortal must have waited for his reply with batted breath.

 **GodofMischief:** _I will be sure to compliment you as soon as I receive that picture, and then I will proceed to masturbate to the fantasy you’ve just described. Do you really like to suck cocks, or do you prefer having a hot mouth on yours? I’d go to town in a heartbeat for you, baby._

Mortals and their strange expressions... The context was clear, though, so Loki didn’t bother searching for a translation.

 **GodofMischief:** _Before we get each other off, could you tell me how you would like to get your money?_

Loki, who’d been stroking his cock unhurriedly since Mischief had written that part about wanting to see his mouth, dipped a finger into his cunt.

He tried the words out loud. “You are so nice to me, daddy.”

It didn’t sound so bad, so he wrote them, too.

 **GodofMischief:** _I only want what’s best for you, baby._

Loki let go of his wet folds and adjusted the camera to zoom on his mouth. He parted his lips, darted out his tongue, and pressed the appropriate key on the keyboard. His seidr took care of the slight blur and added a wet look to his lips.

 **OncomingStorm:** _Then use my mouth for your pleasure while I rut on the floor by your bed, daddy._

 **GodofMischief:** _Fuck, that’s hot. Your mouth is absolutely gorgeous, baby. If you were here right now… I don’t think I would last longer than a few thrusts, and you should know that I take pride in my stamina._

 **OncomingStorm:** _Then perhaps you would like to help me out first?_

Loki lay on his back and bent his knees. That picture was trickier to take, but with a little magic to erase some parts and put others into focus, he got the job done in less than three minutes. By then, Mischief had sent him another message.

 **GodofMischief:** _I would be glad to. Where should I start, green eyes? Do you want me to suck your nipples, or your balls? Should I worship your cock until you come down my throat, or would you prefer my fingers up your sweet ass?_

Loki licked his lips and hit ‘Send’.

 **OncomingStorm** : If I may be so bold, I think I would like for you to kiss me there, before you fuck me.

Loki was _not_ nervous as he waited for the man’s answer. He was pretty confident that his holes, both his holes, looked nice and inviting. He'd only erased his cunt from the picture because Midgardians didn’t seem open about hermaphrodism, and in many parts of the world, treated their women just as bad as the Aesirs did. Loki might not like Sif much, he still thought she deserved a better fate.

 **GodofMischief:** _Fuck, you’re killing me here, baby. What a cute little ass you have! Pink and pretty, just like I’d imagined it. Want me to lick it good, baby? Want my whole tongue inside it as my fingers stretch it open slowly and gently? I’d take my time eating you, would want to make sure you were ready for my cock. Fuck, I’m so hard picturing you sitting on my face, baby._

Loki’s jaw dropped. He’d wished for a positive reaction, but what he’d received went beyond his expectations. The mortal couldn’t have known about that brief, almost non-existent twinge of unease he’d experienced waiting for his answer, and yet his words seemed to address his so-barely-there-it-didn’t-exist nervousness. Loki moaned aloud. Reading those words again, he sucked on one finger, and then slid it between his ass cheeks, prodding at his fluttering asshole. He kept the pace slow as he pumped that digit in and out, pretending it was a hot tongue lapping at his inner walls.

 **OncomingStorm:** _My finger feels good, but only because I picture your clever tongue instead. Your appreciation of my ass delights me; I very much enjoy to lie back and spread my legs for that purpose, daddy. I could also sit on your face; whatever it takes to make you happy._

 **GodofMischief:** _Sit on my face for that once, baby. I’m a bit tired today, and I’d like to feel you fuck yourself on my tongue. Can you do that for me, baby?_

The second finger went in dry, but Loki barely felt the burnt; the man’s words were exactly what he needed to hear, and he was so grateful for the simple pleasure it granted him.

 **OncomingStorm:** _Will I get to suck your gorgeous cock afterwards? I am hungry for the taste of your seed on my tongue._

 **GodofMischief:** _Sure you can, baby, fuck, you’re so good for me. Come from my tongue and fingers alone, and I will fill your mouth like you want, ok? Don’t touch your cock. God, you'd feel so warm on my face. Would you spread your ass cheeks for me as you ride my tongue? It would makes it easier for me to lick every inch of that sweet ass. I want you to feel good, baby. I want to make you scream as you spill yourself all over my chest._

 **OncomingStorm:** _I am already close, and I am not even touching my cock, just like you've requested. You take such good care of me, daddy, thank you, thank you..._

Loki pushed the computer off his lap, rolled on his belly and shoved two fingers of his now free hand back into his dripping cunt. He pumped them at the same pace he was fingering his ass, reaching deep, relishing in the steady building of his pleasure. As he fit a third digit into every hole, he pressed his face into the mattress and mewled, hips snapping in fast little circles. It took some coordination to both rub the right spot inside his cunt and jab his prostate on every thrust, but he’d had centuries to practice, and knew exactly how to drive himself crazy. It was with the vivid picture of Mischief’s cock balls deep into his cunt, and the mortal's fingers caressing his prostate, that he finally climaxed. With a low whine, Loki spread his legs wide and let the juices of his pleasure gush from his cunt and coat his wrist. He wondered if the sweet scent of it would appeal to Mischief. If the mortal would gather it on his tongue and fingers and push it into his ass, before fucking that hole properly, too.

 **GodofMischief:** _How’s my baby doing?_

Loki snorted.

 **OncomingStorm:** _Sated, thanks to you._

 **GodofMischief:** _I’m delighted to hear that, baby. Just came myself. Do you like the taste of cum?_

Loki licked his lips. He'd always appreciated a partner who’d rather ask than assume.

 **OncomingStorm:** _I could lick your mess up, daddy. After all, it’s my fault you made it in the first place._

Loki left to take another shower, unwilling to waste seidr while there was hot water available. When he returned to the bedroom, Mischief was inquiring about his preferred method of payment.

Loki considered his options.

 **OncomingStorm:** _Tell me how to set up a bank account._

*

The neighboring park was filled with tourists today. Loki knew they were tourists because in every realm, they gawked and tended to gather into groups, looking for trinkets and mementos of their trip. Since Midgardian tourists tended to walk around snapping pictures of just about everything, they were noticeably easy to spot.

Loki selected a vacant picnic table and sat down just a tad less gracefully than usual. Setting up a bank account had not been a ‘walk in the park’, as the Midgardians liked to say, but it was the magic he’d used hiding his tracks that had been the most taxing. While Mischief had seemed happy to answer all of his questions (and compliment him on their relevance), Loki couldn’t trust anything the man said and had done his very best to assure his own safety and anonymity.

The three thousand dollars he’d seen appear in the little box on the computer screen had been worth the effort, though.

While he sipped his coffee (well sugared, without milk or cream), he leafed through one of those newspapers the mortals sold and bought in the street. There were advantages to watch the news on his ‘borrowed’ computer, but the truth was, Loki missed his library back in Asgard. The scent of paper was not the same on Midgard, but the feel of it soothed some part of him that ached for his suite of rooms, and his mother's gardens.

As was the fashion at least once a week, the front page displayed an article about Iron Man. This time, the ‘journalist’ (apparently, gossipers had a title on Midgard) had written something seriously lacking in taste about the man’s private life.

_Tony Stark: Still Mourning the Woman of His Life?_

Loki snickered in his coffee. As if. He’d heard of Virginia Potts and doubted that the woman had had the appeal to take root into the man’s mind or heart, let alone both. It had been a while since Loki had fallen in love, but he suspected that Anthony Stark, just like him, didn’t develop such feelings easily.

He wore masks as easily as he breathed, but so did Loki, which was why he could see so clearly that Stark wasn’t heartbroken in that picture, but angry, and suffering.

He flattened the newspaper on the picnic table and stared at the face inked between the ridiculous title and the equally ridiculous article penned by that self-proclaimed journalist. Two days ago, on the morning following his delicious exchange with Mischief, he’d read that Iron Man had saved thousands of lives on the other side of the Atlantic. It had been a while since Loki had saved but one life. Beside his mother, he wasn’t sure there was someone in any realm for whom he would risk his life, except perhaps his brother, if only because the oaf hadn’t dismissed his story and warnings as their father had so easily done.

_When can we meet, green eyes?_

Loki knew he would have to meet Mischief in order to secure his income. Mischief would let him believe _he_ had a choice for a while, but eventually the novelty would wear off, and his ‘sugar daddy’ would start looking for another ‘baby’ who would show less reluctance, and more enthusiasm. Seidr-wise, he could take another’s appearance, and he’d considered it during his run the other day, but there was just a little problem with that: physical pleasure tended to be too much of a distraction for him to maintain the illusion, even if he was a skilled sorcerer. He wasn't worried about being forced into anything, of course; mortals were so breakable, and should that one look at him the wrong way, try to use him, even unconsciously, Loki would have no qualm in making him suffer.

But should the mortal prove polite and amusing… Should the mortal give him pleasure… Should the mortal agree to put on a blindfold for a couple of hours…

“I will waste you for anybody else, you who had thought it wise to use my name,” he crooned as he pictured the glans of Mischief's cock caressing his lips. “I will become your first thought in the morning, and the last fantasy to warm your blood at night.”

Yes, the blindfold would do nicely.

Lost in thought, Loki barely noticed it as his thumb, seemingly with a mind of its own, caressed the still face of Anthony Stark.


	5. The Comfort of Strangers (Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your enthusiasm and your patience are both treasured by yours truly. I hope you enjoy the plot twist in this one!

Tony liked knowledge, but he’d always been a sucker for a good mystery and Storm, with his sumptuous backside, stunning green eyes and skills at making him desperate for an orgasm with carefully chosen words, captivated him like few people in this world. He had known the man for less than a week and yet just thinking about the enigma Storm represented gave him almost more relief than a good bottle of scotch. If he hadn’t gone through half the pretty-looking boys and girls at MIT like a horny reaper during the Black Plague back in the day, he might even label himself as giddy.

But of course, forty-eight-year-old Tony Stark was not giddy anymore, merely an alcoholic, depressive, obsessive mechanic with both hands scarred in blood.

He also happened to have the whole of Internet at his fingertips, so he could probably have found out Storm’s real name, age, blood group and if he liked AC/DC in less than twenty minutes, but he wouldn’t spoil his own pleasure in such a way. Not that Friday suggested it, or would have approved, and Tony had to wonder when exactly his AI’s opinion regarding his sexual life had begun to matter to him.

Not that he wouldn’t give a pretty penny to be at Storm’s doorstep in ten minutes top chrono.

He was sorely tempted in-between signing documents for SI, inventing amazing devices in his workshop and jerking off (sometimes in-between two steps of tinkering, even). He kept thinking about putting his greedy hands on every last secret made available by his genius and technology as he drank his first cup of coffee early in the afternoon, while he was working on his suit’s latest version (which was hazardous multitasking at best), and silently wished he was _that_ much of an asshole as to invade someone else’s private life for no better reason than his own curiosity as he lay awake in the wee hours of morning, sporting a raging hard-on in the pathetic company of his oldest lover, his right hand.

Drink, work, jerk off, repeat. This was his usual schedule and he stuck to it with the persistence of a cold sore. After all, he had to keep busy, or else he would keep worrying about the lack of answers on green eyes’ part, or poke at his broken heart, or reminisce on what had transpired in that bunker in Siberia thanks to Steve Traitor Rogers…

Wait, what, _worrying_? He wasn’t worrying, he told himself as he checked for the nth time the last message he’d sent to Storm.

**GodofMischief:** _Now that your bank account is all set, and I’ve seen your cute pink little asshole, how about you tell me of your conditions for a meeting, baby? If you’re shy in person, it doesn’t bother me._

Groaning to himself, he kicked at an empty box of take-out he didn’t remember eating. He’d really expected the other shoe to drop when he’d learnt about his baby’s ignorance of the banking system, but Storm’s clever questions and innuendos thorough the exchange had only painted an even more desirable picture for a sapiophile like Tony.

“How do you suppose a person can be completely ignorant of the modern banking system but still manages to beat you in your own field?”

“I suppose you refer to your seduction skills, as opposed to your engineering ones?”

“They aren’t exactly at opposite ends of the spectrum, girl.”

“Do you believe he is playing you?” the AI enquired.

Tony huffed out a laugh, gazing at the dark clouds gathering over New York. “There are better ways to do so, if one wishes to plead ignorance… No matter how weird it is that he can use a computer without issue but doesn’t know how to open a bank account…”

“The chances of him telling the truth, as opposed to him playing you, are lower than ten percent. To be exact-”

“… around 7.008%, yes, I know.” Tony watched the coffee slosh around in his mug as if the key to the green eyes mystery somehow floated in it. “He probably has financial problems, as well as a ton of other issues.”

“What in your exchanges gave you that impression?”

“It’s more of a gut feeling than anything concrete, but then only seldom do people register to that kind of website if they’re perfectly happy with their lives.”

With a sigh, Tony set his mug on Pepper’s table (he really had to get rid of it) and made his way to the window. The view was great, or would be, if the weather wasn’t so dramatic today. As if two gods had decided to have a go at it… Nope, that was a mental image he didn’t like so much. While Loki was seriously hot in a predatory/serial-killer way, Thor was all muscles and no brain, and that-

Wait, _what_?

“Do you suppose he’s afraid?” he blurted out, disturbed by a whole new set of fantasies he definitely shouldn’t be entertaining. Must be the slim waist and long black hair, but then there had to be tens of millions of men like that out there. He was being silly. “Do you think he’s genuinely new to this lifestyle?”

“Do you hope he is?” Friday quizzically. replied

Tony shook his head; his girl was too clever for her own good. A smile slowly curled the corner of his mouth. He tugged at his goatee, frowning at the city lights down below. He was probably due for a shave, but then showing up like this, with his clothes wrinkled and the beginning of a beard, might irk Pepper enough that he might forget for a while that the gorgeous man that he may or may not get to meet hadn’t replied to him in seventy-four hours.

Seventy-five now.

Damn it.

He shook his head, mentally punching himself in the hope that his brain would come around. Perhaps if he hurried up and drank a third espresso…

“I wouldn’t mind interacting with someone who doesn’t have any preconceived idea about Tony Stark or Iron Man,” he mused aloud, retreating to the elevator. Yes, he would go to the meeting in those two-day-old clothes and his whisky-sour breath. Give his board some sense of reality. “Someone who isn’t…”

 _…_ _susceptible to agree with Rogers, someone who doesn’t worship me for my money or my political power…_

“I wonder if he was serious when he’d said that thing about killing someone for a lot less. Perhaps he’d really been to jail and that’s why he doesn’t want to show his face?”

He could swear that had Friday possessed a physical body, she would have facepalmed.

“And here I thought your days of flirting with danger were behind you, boss.”

The elevator doors dinged open. Tony strode in with the beginning of a bounce in his step. Ok, so maybe he’d brush his teeth before the meeting.

“You know me so well, girl.”

*

The meeting had lasted so long that Tony was surprised he hadn’t turned into a fossil by the end of it. He congratulated himself on not throwing anyone through the window (bad guys really shouldn’t give him such good ideas) and left the room in a rush, not caring if it looked like he was trying to avoid Pepper. Because he was totally avoiding her, there was no question about it, and he wouldn’t turn around now, even if he could hear her threaten him from across the corridor… He was faster than her, right? Besides, scotch was always such a good motivation factor.

Drink, work, jerk off, repeat.

The elevator’s doors opened just as he was reaching them. His smile of triumph quickly morphed into a grimace, however, as he saw that the lift was already occupied by someone he intensely disliked.

A bald, black, one-eyed annoying bastard who shouldn’t have access to this floor, or the whole damn tower, in the first place.

“Nick Fury, my least favorite person of the day,” Tony greeted him with a sneer. He’d never liked the bastard, but after the Accords, the net worth of the One-Eyed Pirate With a Shield had dropped significantly below the freezing point.

And of course the disdain was mutual, because Tony made it a point to enjoy his enemyships.

“Don’t you know when to shut up, Stark?” Fury growled.

“You could ask your favorite soldier boy and his buddy, but I’m afraid they tend to vanish off the map as soon as they’ve tried to kill someone,” Tony offered with mock carelessness.

“Stark.” Fury slammed his hand down on the elevator doors before they could close again. “Rogers has come out of hiding to help us deal with this threat.”

Tony wasn’t so sure why he was still standing there, listening to Fury’s word vomit as Pepper kept approaching. He really, really didn’t want to be caught in a sandwich between them, but it was as if his feet had a mind of their own and chosen this particular spot on the floor to sprout roots.

“Us?” He asked, even as the rest of his brain caught up with the rest of the sentence and wondered, ‘what threat?’.

Fury glared at him.

“I don’t see how whatever Wonderboy brought to your attention concerns me,” he tried again.

“I would have thought the possible death of thousands would matter to you, but maybe you’re too busy getting drunk you’ve forgotten there’s a world beyond your tower, Stark?”

“Fuck you.”

“No, thank you. Get yourself together, Stark, because as much as I am loath to admit it, we need your-”

“Get the fuck out of my tower!”

“Listen to me, you idiot-”

Fury was not in the lift anymore; suddenly, he was in his personal space, like lover-personal, and Tony really hated how he’d frozen instead of punching the asshole back. He could feel the wall at his back, cool and unforgivingly hard, and his chest tightened abruptly because hell on heels, Steve Rogers had just appeared at Fury’s back like the worst genius in existence. Captain America sported a beard now, and a roguish aura, as if he had a Barnes symbiote simmering under his skin. He was still blond, though, with those piercing blue eyes Tony saw all too often in his nightmares.

Breathe, he told himself. They can’t stay here if you don’t want them to.

Except that they could. They were both stronger than him without his suit.

“What are you doing here, Rogers?” he managed to snarl, but it didn’t sound angry enough. “Came to finish the job?”

Fury answered, and he still stood somehow in front of Rogers; a small consolation, when Tony could taste both fear and anger in the back of his mouth. His heart picked up speed as Rogers’ eyes settled on him, merciless, and even worse, guiltless.

“There had been sightings of Loki.”

Tony blinked.

“We… Barnes is tracking him, but you know as well as I do that this one has a tendency to disappear,” Fury gritted between his teeth. “Surely you could find a way to track the guy-”

“No,” Tony said before his brain-to-mouth filter could be reinstalled after Brain Melt 1.0. Loki? Wasn’t he breaking out of jail right now, or selecting a world to try and dominate from his villainous lair? He cleared his throat and lifted his chin. It sucked so much to be short. “I have zero obligation to help you,” he added in a roughened voice, as though ‘no’ could possibly be misunderstood.

Pepper was now hovering in the background too, not close enough to Rogers that Tony would see it as treason, but her expression told Tony all he needed to know.

“Mr. Stark-”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing today, Ms. Potts? In case you’ve forgotten, he did his best _to try and kill me_.”

Rogers didn’t flinch, and Fury still looked like he’d rather bang Tony’s head against a hard surface than try his hand at diplomacy. Pepper, however, looked stricken, and Tony would berate himself for losing his temper, except that it was Rogers they were talking about, a traitor and a would-be killer whom Tony couldn’t stand in thought and even less in person.

“I- Get them the fuck out of my tower, girl.”

“On it, boss.”

*

It wasn’t until he was back at the penthouse that he finally snapped.

The half-empty bottle of scotch was first, hurled across the room and smashed against one of the windows. Tony grabbed the tumbler and threw it next. His head was swimming, his heart pounded too fast and the only things he could think about were Rogers’ hands pinning him down, Rogers’ hands punching the daylights out of him, then terrorists pushing his head under water, explosions everywhere, guilt and fear and dismay all tangled up in a tick-tack bomb of oppression in his tightening chest… He couldn’t draw enough air and his knees were giving up, hitting the floor with a rough thud that seemed to echo through his very bones.

He wasn’t even aware he was crying until he tasted salt.

“… calling anyone, boss?”

Jarvis was talking to him, trying to calm him down…  but wasn’t the voice female? He whipped the sweat off his brow, but the memories gathered at the forefront of his mind like a storm in the making.

“… it’s Friday, boss. You’re safe, you’re all right. There’s no one here but me. Do you want me to call Rhodes?”

Rhodes was a friend, right? Right? Tony whimpered as the taste of blood exploded in his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue, or his cheek. Pain flared in his mouth but it was so much worse in his chest. He wanted to stop the tears but he might as well try and keep his body from shivering. Curling into a ball on the floor, he made grabby hands for something, anything to distract himself from the cold of the water, the cold of Siberia, the sensation of having his chest torn open…

The familiar outline of a tablet met his open palm. It took many attempts to pull it down to the floor, and many more to be able to make up what was on the screen, but eventually, Tony could read the words etched on it, white on black, a tangible proof of a present that involved neither Rogers nor Pepper.

 **GodofMischief** : _Now that your bank account is all set, and I’ve seen your cute pink little asshole, how about you tell me of your conditions for a meeting, baby? If you’re shy in person, it doesn’t bother me._

His fingers shook, but he managed to type something intelligible, if not exactly flattering for himself.

 **GodofMischief** : _Hey, Storm, could you talk with me for a bit? Tell me about your day, and I will pay you. Or yesterday, or tomorrow, I don’t really care. Just say something._

He wasn’t sure he would get an answer, but he was sure the panic would be worse if he didn’t.

Minutes ticked by. One. Two. Three. Surely Storm was busy at… three past two pm. He was probably in his apartment somewhere, or perhaps on the street, headed to… school? A work place that didn’t pay enough? Unfortunately, wondering about Storm only caused him to think back about those other persons he’d thought he’d known but who’d betrayed him. Stane. Rogers.

His knuckles turned white on the tablet.

What was he waiting for? He should call Rhodes, like… Friday, yes, Friday, his girl, his AI, was suggesting. But Rhodes would judge him. They all judged him in the end, but green eyes’ verdict wouldn’t hurt. They didn’t truly know each other.

Let go of the tablet, he told his stubborn hands. Take another bottle and drink. Rogers isn’t here, Friday has your floor completely locked down, and she’s the best.

He was hyperventilating by the time Storm’s reply popped on the screen like an early Christmas gift.

 **OncomingStorm** : _I am very fond of rain, and have spent most of the day outside. New York lacks greenery, but there is a park, I’ve heard, which makes up for all those tall, ugly towers full of overachievers and presumptuous leaders. I met someone who offered me one thousand dollars to have his cock sucked, but I said no. It is quite important to act upon what you truly feel, or else you make a lie out of your own life. Little lies, playful ones, are of course a sign of wit and shouldn’t be repressed lest one falls into a spiral of boredom._

Tony read the message twice. No question asked; green eyes just did what he’d been asked.

And the best thing was, he wasn’t done. Tony held on his tablet for dear life, devoring Storm’s account of his arrival to New York and all the trivial things he’d done recently. Whether it was true or false didn’t matter: the strangers’ words were pulling at Tony’s anxiety like a well-crafted spell, wiping the color out of those vivid, terrible memories, until relief bubbled up in his chest, soothing down his heartbeat to some semblance of normality.

He didn’t think twice before asking Friday to transfer a hundred dollars to Storm.

 **GodofMischief** : _Thank you._

 **OncomingStorm** : _Oh no, you did not._

 **OncomingStorm** : _While I am after your money, ‘God of Mischief’, I do not want to be paid for helping you calm down. It is a gift I gave freely, and your payment insults me._

“What the… Ok.” Tony was honestly dumbfounded. People never refused his money except- no, he wasn’t going there.

**GodofMischief** _: I have money to spare. Think of it as a front payment for our future interactions._

Tony waited a few minutes but got no answer.

**GodofMischief** _: Apparently, the God of Mischief had been sighed today._

As soon as he hit ‘Send’, he regretted this attempt at conversation. Surely he could do better?

Storm’s reply, swift and unexpected, startled a laugh out of him.

 **OncomingStorm** : _It must either pleases you greatly, as you bear his name, or cause you to fear for your life._

 **GodofMischief** : _Can’t it be both?_

 **OncomingStorm** : _You alone can answer this question._

 **GodofMischief** : _Well, it could go one of two ways, should he ever learn of my choice in usernames: either he will be flattered, or very insulted._

 **OncomingStorm** : _What reaction would you rather provoke?_

Tony arched a brow. Honestly, he’d expected green eyes to either ignore him or change the subject, but apparently, discussing a mad god’s psychology for fun appealed to more than one person on the planet.

Then he remembered his X-rated thoughts about the god in question and wished there was an appropriate bottle of forgetfulness in reach.

 **GodofMischief** : _I’m not quite sure. I like to defy expectations, you know. Danger and I are old buddies… Not that I would endanger you, green eyes._

**OncomingStorm:** _Oh, I know._

There was a smiling emoji following that last word, which surprised Tony. Storm wasn’t too keen on those expressive icons.

One more mystery to solve.

 **OncomingStorm** : _You requested a meeting._

Tony exhaled slowly. His heart was almost beating at a normal rhythm now, thanks to one stranger not questioning him. He felt… benevolent, even if arousal was warming his body where fear had reigned minutes ago.

 **GodofMischief:** _You didn’t seem ready for this, last we spoke._

 **OncomingStorm:** _I actually am, if you agree to this one condition._

Curiosity was fueling his arousal. Even Friday’s interruption of ‘Sir, both Fury and Ms. Potts are trying to access your private elevator’ didn’t shift his focus away from the fantasies taking shape in front of his mind’s eyes.

 **GodofMischief** _: Name it,_ he typed faster than lightning.

His unease, which Storm had helped dispel, returned full force as he read the man’s answer.

 **OncomingStorm** : _I would request that you be blindfolded._

Was Storm well-known as well? While Tony could understand the reason behind that request, he knew he could never agree to this. Still, he didn’t say no outright. Beating around the bush was one of his specialities anyway.

 **GodofMischief** : _Could I still touch you?_

 **OncomingStorm** : O _f course._

 **GodofMischief** : _Hear you?_

**OncomingStorm:** _Yes._

Tony licked his lower lip, thinking furiously. Yeah, that could do…

**GodofMischief:** _I need some time. I don’t like to be blindfolded… and you don’t like to be seen. How about a compromise?_

**OncomingStorm** : _I’m listening._

Tony grinned at the screen as he raised himself to a sitting position. “Either you really need the money no matter what you say, or you’ve got a serious case of blue balls, baby… Good thing is, I can help with both.”

He couldn’t write fast enough.

 **GodofMischief** : _There are some places where one can meet someone else on the other side of a ‘wall’, let’s say, and still touch the other through small holes._

 **OncomingStorm** : _Actually… If you let me put on a mask, I could meet you at your place._

“Huh,” Tony mused out loud, rubbing a knuckle over his lips. “So as long as I don’t see your face, you’re fine?”

 **GodofMischief** : _If you’re worried about marks or scars, it’s really not necessary._

 **OncomingStorm** : _I would ask that you don’t insist on that matter,_ Storm replied instantly. _I simply wish to remain… as anonymous as I can._

Tony could relate to that. “Masks should be fun,” he said out loud. “What do you say, Friday? Do I need to go shopping, or do I still have something suitable… Ok, don’t answer that.”

“Somehow, I knew you didn’t really want me to participate in your little discussion.”

“Clever girl.” Tony winked at the ceiling. Then he returned to the tablet, because hello, he was setting up a meeting with a gorgeous man.

 **GodofMischief** : _No problem. Do you mind if I wear one as well?_

He didn’t expect Storm to argue against it, and Storm didn’t.

 **GodofMischief** : _I can’t wait to see your body, and your eyes and mouth,_ he wrote, knowing he shouldn’t let his eagerness show so much but the desire coursing in his veins directed his hands like master puppeteers. _I’d wanted to feel you properly for days. Your eyes are so stunning…_

**OncomingStorm** _: They would be even more so wet with tears, should you fill my mouth with that gorgeous prick of yours, daddy._

“Fuck,” Tony swore, tugging at his waistband to free his swelling cock. “If you speak like you write, you’re gonna make me cum so easily, baby. So perfect.”

“If you say so, boss.”

Tony cringed. “Actually, I wasn’t asking… Just thinking out loud.”

“And that Storm individual seems to know just how you think, boss. It would worry me, if such perceptiveness wasn’t paired with an ability to distract you.”

“Do you really have to try and kill the mood?” Tony whined as his cock softened slightly under his palm. “Go back to your room while daddy- nope, not using that anymore- while your wonderful creator spends some quality time with green eyes, will you? I’ll give you an upgrade later tonight, I swear.”

Friday drew a face on the screen of his tablet and stuck out its tongue at him.

“Very mature, girl.”

“At least as much as you, boss. Have fun!”

The face dissolved, revealing Storm’s latest words. Tony read them again, mainly because the mental image they offered really did it for him. His cock was thicker than average and slightly longer too, and while experts at deepthroating could give him a great deal of pleasure by swallowing around him, he’d much rather spend the night with someone who had a gag reflex but _begged_ to have their mouth and throat stuffed with cock anyway.

“Don’t worry your pretty head, baby,” he whispered to the green eye at the top left corner of the screen, left hand pulling at his thickening cock as his right typed away more sinful proposals. “I’ll make it so very good for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might stick to this fic and [Memories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12026649/chapters/38222279) for a while, depending on what my muse fancies.


End file.
